A New Life
by Myhoniahaka
Summary: Spoilers for Far From Home. Happy is now the only person who can take care of Peter. Story takes place after the mid-credit scene of Far From Home.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone, this fic will contain major spoilers for Far From Home. If you haven't seen it yet, run away and come back when you do see it. If you have seen it, I hope you watched the mid-credits, otherwise there are spoilers. This fic takes place a little bit after the events of Far From Home. The only warning I have so far is the regular amount of angst that I always put into my stories.

* * *

Peter couldn't stop watching it.

He heard the words that he never said, felt the fear and betrayal of what happened that day, and was absolutely crushed by the way Quentin framed him for murder.

And it wasn't like he was wrong. Peter _did_ kill Quentin.

But never did he order the execution of all of London.

He shook his head. The Daily Bungle showed the same clip day after day after day in an attempt to make Spider-Man public enemy number one, but Peter simply went to YouTube to watch it. The video had over one hundred million views, and an unbalanced number of likes and dislikes. Peter still didn't know what that meant about his status in this world.

The Daily Bungle, although Peter never heard of them until _that_ day, wanted the world to hate him.

And the worst part? It fucking worked.

The mass number of people that surrounded him once the clip was shown held questioning gazes. None of them moved, and Peter, as wide eyed and terrified as he'd been, could only look down from the lamp he balanced on. The panic had spread through his chest until his head began to tingle. This wasn't supposed to be how he was outed. His identity was never _meant_ to have been known.

But it was, and it didn't take long for someone to call the cops.

When he heard that woman whip out her phone and tell, Peter took one last look at MJ before he swung back to May's apartment.

By the time he got home, Happy was on his way. Aunt May held onto his shoulders and tried to bring him out of the daze and panic that had consumed him, and although he couldn't remember much after that, Happy had taken him to a new place. One of unfamiliarity and nothingness.

He still didn't know where they were.

It was a small apartment with few material items around. He got his own room, his own bed, and even a small desk. But there were no Star Wars posters or legos. No chemistry books for him to get lost in. Not only that, but Peter didn't have to look outside to know that they were no longer in Queens, or any city for that matter. Bugs chirped constantly, and the familiar sounds of cars and trains and people were gone.

He often found himself staring out the window in longing because the outside world was within his grasp, but one step outside and someone might see him. And if their location was discovered Happy would get in trouble for hiding a criminal.

So he stayed inside.

And it was bullshit.

He rewound the video for the millionth time, zoning out Quentin's words until "Spider-Man attacked me" were spoken. That was when the worst part started. The part where he said,_ or didn't say_, the words that changed everything.

"Go ahead. Execute them all."

People didn't buy it at first. Especially not the people in Queens. At least most of them. There were a few who wanted him behind bars, but most of them recognized him as the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.

But The Daily Bungle refused to stop playing the video, and eventually it got into people's heads.

Someone jingled the doorknob, and Peter clutched his fingers into the armrest of the sofa. His breath got caught in his throat, and for half a second, he wondered if it was truly Happy. Anyone with the right technology could walk through that door. Like one of the people after EDITH. Or the cops who had some of Mr. Stark's work. Or worst of all, Thaddeus Ross, who took a strange interest into finding either Spider-Man or Peter Parker.

And the only reason Peter knew about Ross was because he asked EDITH who was doing the most research on his location.

He kept his eyes glued to the TV, rewound the video every time it was over. In hindsight, he knew that it couldn't have been anyone but Happy. His Peter tingle would warn him of it were someone else. At least, he hoped it would. It always warned him when he was in danger, but it didn't warn him about Quentin.

Even so, his Peter tingle _should_ activate if someone was breaking in.

Right?

But he didn't look at the door. If Happy saw his wide eyes and pale skin he'd only worry. And Happy had enough worrying to take care of. From the fact that he now had to protect Peter, and those were Happy's words, not his. As far as Peter was concerned, he could take care of himself. The only reason he stayed here was because Happy made some valid points. His face was now known to the world, and the only way to hide it was by wearing a scarf over his face in the middle of summer, or getting plastic surgery.

Neither options were good.

"It's just me." Happy said the moment he walked through the door. Peter craned his head and smiled. Happy had bags of groceries in his hands. No one really knew that he worked with Peter, or Spider-Man, but now Peter was more of his ward than anything else. But while Peter might have been Happy's ward, Spider-Man was still a hero, or a villain. Peter didn't know which one. Because the world saw a villain, but Peter wanted to believe he was a hero.

Even though there was one part of that video that was not a lie.

Peter had, in fact, killed Quentin.

What it didn't show, however, was that it was an accident.

_As if that's an excuse. _He thought.

He released a deep breath as Happy sorted the groceries. He gave quick, furtive glances from Peter to the TV, and his brows were furrowed, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't dare to open his mouth.

Today was the second time Happy left the apartment since they went into hiding. The first was when Peter was still too dazed from the fact that people knew who Spider-Man was. He hadn't even realized Happy had left until he returned, and that was when Peter suddenly realized what was happening.

They were fugitives.

No. _He_ was a fugitive. Happy just happened to have gotten caught in the crossfire.

Once the groceries were all put away, Happy plopped beside him on the sofa, grabbed the remote from Peter's hand, and turned off the TV.

Peter blinked, looked down at the hand the remote once resided in, then glanced to Happy.

"Kid, stop torturing yourself with that video. You know it didn't go down like that."

Happy's face was as serious as always. Still no smile. Still no happiness. His eyes were red rimmed and surrounded by blue. Peter knew Happy didn't sleep well, and the only reason he knew that was because Peter himself couldn't sleep. There were too many nightmares of Iron-man's half melted suit dragging itself from the grave with a half melted face and a smile so twisted that Peter only saw half his teeth.

And then there was the way Iron-man crawled after Peter, as if he truly were a zombie coming back to haunt him.

And every night, without fail, Mr, Stark blamem peter for his death.

Peter shook his head. It was hard to sleep after dreaming of that moment with Quentin, because part of him couldn't shake the blame that maybe it _was_ Peter's fault.

"The world doesn't know that."

Happy heaved a deep breath. "The worlds an idiot, kid. Soon enough the press will find something else to focus on, and then we can get outta this dump."

_And the $20,000 reward? Where's that gonna go? _

Would Spider-Man ever be allowed to go back to normal?

Would Peter Parker ever be allowed to walk the streets again?

And what about Ned and MJ and Aunt May? They knew just as much about Peter's location as Peter himself. And that was nothing. _Nothing_. Happy ensured that not a single person except himself knew their location. So Peter had no idea if he would ever see them again or if they were even okay.

His throat clogged up. MJ had been seen with Spider-Man shortly before The Daily Bungle first played the video.

What if the cops went after her?

What if she were in trouble?

What if she were dead?

"Maybe if I had a different suit. And didn't shoot any webs..."

Maybe then he could see if everyone was okay.

After all, people still believed Night Monkey and Spider-Man were two separate people. Except people got freaked out by Night Monkey, so Peter should make a new suit. One that had nothing to do with spiders and everything to do with getting out of this apartment.

And one that didn't look like he was going to break into the nearest building.

He gave a small chuckle, remembering that time he tried to approach a lady wearing Night Monkey's suit and she ended up backing away in fear. It had freaked him out, then, because no one was scared of Spider-Man. He was just a friendly neighborhood hero, someone who didn't do any harm.

And now everyone was afraid of him.

"Or you can wait until it all dies down—"

No. Peter was done waiting. He was tired of this apartment. Tired of suffocating on the same air freshener and using cheap shampoo when Happy could obviously afford the better kind. He was sick of all the lies, the not knowing. He was sick of it all.

And he wanted _out_.

So he stood up with clenched fists, his teeth ground together so tight it felt as though they'd shatter. No more lies. No more not knowing. Happy had to explain how everything would die down. Where the reward money would go. How people would change their minds.

He had to explain, because Peter needed answers.

"And where will the reward go, Happy? Are they just gonna drop it? Or will someone collect? And what about the people after EDITH? It's pretty obvious Quentin wasn't the only one, and it's been two months. Two horrible fucking months! This isn't going to go away. Captain America wasn't that lucky, so why should I be?"

Happy stood up upon hearing the name of Captain America. His eyes were narrowed into a glare, pinpointed straight at Peter, and he towered over him almost like Mr. Stark did the day of the ferry. But Peter wasn't only Peter, anymore. He was Spider-Man, a hero and a villain. There was no reason to be afraid. Not when Happy wasn't Mr. Stark. Not when Peter didn't do anything wrong.

"Captain America committed treason, and he made it up by saving the world."

Peter snarled. Captain America wasn't Spider-Man. Captain America never became a villain. He had his name known for years and years and years. Yet Captain America never lost the world's support.

"He also died."

"No. Not—well, yes. But that's not going to happen with you."

"So the only way for me to be a hero again is by saving the world? Is that what you're saying?"

"No, I—"

"So I'm supposed to sit here and wait for everyone to change their minds? Do you think that's going to happen? I've done nothing, _nothing_, to prove that I'm not a villain. Do you expect everyone to magically change their minds as if The Daily Bungle isn't—"

"Peter!"

Peter slammed his mouth shut. Happy's voice was similar to Mr. Stark's the day of the ferry. Angry and loud. His face was red, breath so heavy Peter could drown in it. And Peter's own body had gotten hot, and he didn't realize that there were tears until he felt them falling down his neck.

"Peter." Happy said, this time much more calmly, "sit down, and we can talk. No more yelling."

Happy sat down before him, and Peter let out a shuddery breath before following his example. He dug his nails into the armrest again. He didn't dare look, but it felt as though his fingers dug so deep that the fabric ripped.

_Consequences of having super strength, right?_

"You're right," Happy said. "This probably won't die down. The reward for you goes up the longer no one finds you."

"So why tell me to wait?"

"Because you can't leave just yet. While the reward money will go up, people will begin to forget. Or stop caring. There will always be some that will call the cops the moment you're spotted. But right now there are too many of those people. So we need to wait. We need to hide. And once people begin to forget—"

"Why would they do that?"

People never forgot. Peter could attest to that. No one forgot the avengers no matter who or where they were. No one forgot all the heroics they did or how many people they'd saved.

And now that Peter was a bad guy, they were less likely to forget _him _than they would a hero.

And at this rate, he would be trapped in this apartment forever.

So maybe it was better to leave, criminal or not, because Peter couldn't live a life suffocating in the crisp air of an apartment. He couldn't stay inside all day. He needed to swing from building to building, to save people from harm, to help them when they needed it.

He was the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, not the isolated lonely Spider-Man.

And when Happy paused with his mouth gaping open, Peter knew that he was right. Happy didn't _know_ _anything_. He was making excuses to keep Peter holed up here for as long as possible. And yes, it might have been intended to protect him. But what about MJ? She was spotted with Spider-Man. So where was her protection? Did she get any? Or was she not important enough?

"I've had enough of this," Peter said. "No more hiding."

He jumped onto his feet, ran towards the coat hanger and grabbed his sweatshirt. A hoodie might be able to hide his face well enough, and maybe some sunglasses. And maybe he should even bring the scarf.

"Peter, if you leave—"

Happy tried, he really did. But Peter always had his web shooters on hand, and he shot it at Happy's mouth, so now all he could do was yell muffled words and chase him around the apartment.

Except Peter's next target were his arms, then his legs. So there was no chasing, and Happy couldn't keep him here any longer.

"I'm going to see my friends, and you are not stopping me anymore."

Except he wasn't going to see them. Well, he would. But not in the way Happy might think. Peter would check on them, certainly. Make sure they were safe. But he couldn't let them _see_ him.

Enough people got hurt because of him. He couldn't put his friends in any more danger.

Happy screamed some more muffled words, and the guilt of tying him up like that stung at his chest. But it was no worse than Happy isolating him and lying and forcing him to stay inside all day long.

Besides, Happy could get out of the webs eventually, and by then Peter would be long gone.

* * *

Well, there you have it, folks. This was a blast to write, and constructive criticism is always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

Saratoga springs. A three hour drive away from Queens, and a six hour bus ride away. He'd forgotten, after years of living in Queens, that there were places in New York that didn't bustle with cars and buses and parties and trains. Except Saratoga Springs did have this, just not in the area where Happy took him. So while Peter gawked at the amount of trees and nature near the apartment, he felt more comfortable once he reached an area that had tall buildings and a couple cars.

It wasn't Queens, but at least it was sort of familiar.

It might have been a mistake to leave. Not only had Peter used his webs on Happy, which in and of itself was a horrible decision that left him flaying with guilt, but there were a million other reasons why this was a bad idea. Yes, his hoodie covered Peter's face so long as he kept his eyes to the ground. But all it took was one camera or one person and the cops would be on his tail.

Though, he supposed, it wasn't as though the cops could ever catch him.

But Peter couldn't hurt them, either, and he didn't want to hide again.

_But maybe if he ran. _

Like he did when Happy half-dragged him into the private jet that eventually led him here.

Peter closed his eyes with a shake of his head. Street lamps illuminated the city into a silver and gold array. It would have been beautiful had Peter not been on the lookout for the flashing lights of red and blue. Most people were asleep at this hour, especially because it wasn't a weekend night. Many had work or school or other duties to attend to the next day, so he was safe enough that he was mostly alone save for the stray person or couple that wandered through Peter's path. No one bat an eye at seeing a strange kid—or adult, since they couldn't see his face— wandering the streets in a hoodie with his face down. If anything, he might have looked like some sort of criminal...

Oh right. That was because he _was_ a criminal.

One of the most wanted.

So much for saving the world from a drone obsessed madman.

"Some people suck." He said, finding a rock and kicking it with all he had.

The rock went flying until it was no longer in Peter's sight.

"And so does super strength."

Now he had to find _another_ rock to kick.

Peter glanced behind him, then, because he wanted to go back to Happy and apologize for leaving and screaming and shooting webs at his mouth and wrists and ankles—

And god, had he really done that? Even after everything Happy had done for him since Mr. Stark died?

All Happy wanted was to keep Peter safe, and in return, Peter had—had—

Attacked him.

Peter attacked Happy.

"Oh my god...

What was he thinking?

He couldn't have been. All logic must have left his mind after spending so much time without feeling the fresh air of the outdoors. The insanity of it all—from how the world was convinced Peter was a criminal to how he'd been forced to move and hide and never see his friends or family...

Would his life ever go back to normal? Would Peter Parker ever get a chance to shine? Or would the world only see Spider-Man the criminal?

He heaved a deep breath. It had been long enough. Now was a good time to head back. No one saw his face. No one knew where he was. He could go back to Happy, undo the webs, and apologize for everything that happened tonight.

Except something must have gone horribly wrong, because when he turned around, there was a flash of red and blue. The screaming of sirens pelted his ears until Peter thought they would burst, and dozens and dozens of cops, all wearing blue and black, surrounded him from all sides with their guns blazing.

They were all shouting, every last one of them, and that made it impossible to understand. Peter would have shot his webs at the nearest building and swing far, far away. But Mr. Stark's words of _don't do anything stupid _repeated through his mind constantly. Swinging would only alarm them, which would make them shoot and the chances of Peter not getting hit were so slim that when he managed to make out the words "on the ground" Peter knelt down to his knees and put his arms over his head for good measure.

He didn't know why they hadn't shot him yet.

But he was grateful, because Peter was still alive despite all the guns that could have gone off.

Peter clenched his eyes shut. He could feel the adrenaline swarming through his body. His hands were clammy and sweaty, as if the blood wasn't rushing through his body properly. Sweat prickled at his forehead despite the air being cool enough to be comfortable, yet warm enough that he didn't boil. The cops voices were so muffled yet so loud. Peter wanted nothing more than to cover his hands over his head and run, run, run.

Or fly, if his webs had any say in the matter.

A cop, just one, singular cop that Peter could easily take down, grabbed him by the arms and cuffed his wrists so tight breaking through them might fracture something. With his eyes as dilated as they were, his sight of them was more of a blur, and all those lights pierced through his head until it burned and throbbed. He was forced upright with a jolt and a smack to his head. The cop behind him, the only one with the guts to dare touch him, did not want to treat him kindly. No one read his rights to him like they did in the movies —like they were legally required to.

Maybe he could use that fact in court.

He thought about attacking them, but decided against it because these were people who were trying to do something good. Just as Peter had tried by giving Quentin EDITH. They didn't deserve to have the brunt of his webs or super strength on him. And besides, Peter didn't do anything wrong, and he had so many witnesses to prove that Quentin was the bad guy.

"In the car."

But right before he could take another step, he was shoved forward and had his body forcefully bent until he was laying face down on the seat of the car.

It took a while to sit up properly with the handcuffs tied to him, and they were already halfway to the destination by the time he managed to get buckled. The officer had the window up, the one that separated criminal from cop, so Peter didn't bother with questions or defending himself. He could easily break from these cuffs, could easily break down the door and roll. At some point, his web shooters were taken. But he still had the super strength and spider sense and sticky hands and feet.

But he didn't break anything, and he didn't stick to anything. He just watched the world go by from the backseat of a car as he thought about how he should defend himself.

A lawyer. He needed a lawyer.

Innocent until proven guilty. That was the law, the constitution. So Peter swallowed despite his throat being so thick and full. The law was on his side right now. Peter could hire a lawyer, one that Happy would happily pay for, and make his defense. The justice system was sure to be on his side, because Peter wasn't guilty of anything. He hadn't done anything wrong.

Just because The Daily Bungle was dead set on proving otherwise didn't mean it wasn't nonsense. Surely the police would realize it was Peter who was the victim. That Spider-Man had been screwed over and betrayed and outed.

Yes. Everything would be alright, because the system was on Peter's side.

* * *

Thaddeus Ross was a tall man.

His hair was white, and the mustache and beard only made him look more intimidating. He wore a blue and white tux, one that was far too fancy for this kind of situation. It was like Thaddeus was trying to intimidate him. The muscles on his body only added to that factor. But Peter knew that despite his smaller frame and shorter stature, he could beat him in less than a heartbeat.

Super strength came with its advantages.

There was a camera centered in the corner of the room. It was no doubt on, and recording everything. Probably so that they could catch the confession and record it for The Daily Bungle to show to the world. The thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Like he needed even more bad and false publicity. He got enough of that to last a lifetime, and there wasn't a chance in hell that he was giving them a confession.

Especially a false confession.

He coiled his hands into fists and slammed them on the table. If Ross was trying the intimidating factor, so would Peter.

"The video was altered." Peter said, "it didn't—Quentin didn't die like that. I didn't order those drones to— the video is wrong."

That... did not come out how he wanted it to.

His voice was strong until the end. But the stutters and mistakes made the statement weaker than it was. God, he wished he had rehearsed that in his mind. It would have come out so much better and maybe they would have let him go. But no. Ross narrowed his eyes and leaned forward as he sat in the chair across him from. He didn't say a word. Didn't even open his mouth. No. Ross merely stared at him with no expression that Peter could read.

He shuddered, swallowed something heavy in his throat. Was Peter supposed to say something right now?

He opened his mouth, but only a raw croak escaped, as if any and all words had failed him. Maybe he should break these cuffs and make a run for it. Ross didn't seem to be any kinder now that Peter explained the contents of the video. Instead he seemed even more upset. Or happy. He didn't know what all the silence and staring meant.

But it couldn't be good.

"First offense: the attack in Germany."

No. This wasn't good at all.


	3. Chapter 3

"I didn't sign the Accords."

That was the only way he knew how to defend himself, and rather than being proven wrong as Ross should have been, he seemed more entertained by Peter's choice of words. A playful glint entered his eyes, and his brow quirked upwards. What Peter should have done was explain that Mr. Stark asked him to help fight Captain America, but that wasn't what he said. Was it too late to say it now? And would Ross even care?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But Peter hoped he would.

But except for mild amusement, Ross's expression remained the same. There was no affection, no inkling that he was on Peter's side, nothing that told Peter that _anyone_ was on his side.

He wanted to wrap his arms around his stomach in a pathetic attempt at self preservation, but his hands were cuffed to a table.

"My apologies." Ross said, "first offense: not signing the Accords. Which makes the attack on Germany legal under the Accords law, except for the fact that it was an _attack_ and people got _hurt_, which is still breaking the law."

Peter stiffened. _What_? Not signing the Accords wasn't illegal. It wasn't an offense. Yes. He might have bent the law by going to Germany, but it by no means qualified as a felony or an offense. If anything, it was Captain America's team that was offensive. They'd broken the Accords until his team was labeled as 'renegades.' Why was Peter getting the blame for this? He'd only done as Mr. Stark asked, and he never once offered to let Peter sign the Accords.

And he knew—oh, he knew, the exact reason why Mr. Stark hadn't had Peter sign those papers.

"Minors aren't allowed to sign—"

"Without a legal guardian. You had every opportunity to sign it, but you didn't."

Except he didn't have that opportunity, because May didn't know he was Spider-Man at the time. Because Peter didn't have access to any contract when Mr. Stark showed up at his apartment. Because Peter was fifteen and there wasn't a legal guardian to sign the papers with or for him.

"Aunt May didn't know I was Spider-man at the time." He said.

Ross didn't seem to care.

Not even a little bit.

"Doesn't matter. You participated in an attack on a foreign country."

That sounded bad. That sounded really, really, really bad. Like, terrorism bad. Peter did do that. He did as Mr. Stark asked and now he was paying the price. And maybe if Peter had said no—if he even had that option— then maybe he wouldn't be in this situation. Maybe Mr. Stark wouldn't have reversed the blip and it would be Peter that was still dead and not Mr. Stark. Maybe if he didn't make dumb decisions like give EDITH to a complete stranger none of this would be happening.

"You gave Mr. Stark thirty-six hours to find and capture Captain America and his team."

"And the Sokovia Accords are very clear. Anyone who doesn't sign them is not allowed to interfere with international conflict. Due to a minors ability to sign it via their guardian, minors are not excluded from that."

No. No. No. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Peter couldn't be in this much trouble. The justice system was supposed to be on his side. They were supposed to _help_ him. He was innocent until proven guilty.

"I want a lawyer."

And maybe he wasn't anymore, maybe he was guilty before he ever left the apartment.

"You don't have the right to a lawyer."

Peter jerked his head. No right to a lawyer? How was that even possible? The constitution was clear about this matter. The _law_ was clear. So who was Ross to go around telling lies about Peter's rights? He'd watched every crime series in existence, and this had corrupt cop written all over it.

"Why?" He asked.

Peter had as much right to lawyer as anyone else.

"You have innate powers, correct? They're natural and within your biology. Not just machines that grant you lasers."

Peter's eye twitched. "So?"

"So," Ross plopped his chin in his hand and leaned against the table. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and Peter shuddered. Whatever Ross was about to say, it wouldn't be good.

"Some might say you're more spider than human."

_Oh my god... _

This couldn't be happening.

His stomach churned and bile rose to his throat. It took everything in his power not to vomit onto the table. Had he just been accused of not being human? Or not being _completely_ human? Just what kind of person was Ross? How horrible could a single person be?

_Horrible enough to kill half the universe_.

But he shouldn't think about Thanos right now.

"Your third offense," Ross said as he whipped out a notebook. "Vigilantism. Illegal under the Accords and under regular law."

Peter jerked against the cuffs. If there was a time to break out of them, it was while he was in the police car. He might have been a little late, but he could take Ross and the cops and whoever else was in this building. He was Spider-Man, protector of the people, and presently, protector of himself. The cuffs dug into his skin with the rattle of bone against metal. Blood dripped from his skin. It would heal quickly enough, but as he pulled and strained against the cuff, it almost felt as though someone held a flame over his arm.

And he couldn't get out.

No matter how much strength he used, how much his wrist burned, the cuffs stayed intact. The table jerked and rattled, but not the cuffs. So maybe he should take the whole table with him. Because right now, his super strength wasn't working. And he could use the table as a weapon and a shield. It could keep the bullets from hitting him, and Peter could slam it into their bodies.

"I—"

His eyes were wide as he glanced up at Ross. He was smirking and watching. Just watching him put all his strength into getting these cuffs off his goddamn wrist. And Peter's eyes were burning as if tears were in his eyes, but he didn't know if there actually were tears because he was too busy trying to get the cuffs off.

And finally, he gave up and yanked both his arms towards the ceiling. A bone shattering crack filled the air, and Peter screamed as his wrists melted and burned and throbbed and bled. One of his wrists was bent at a right angle. A full ninety degrees, and Peter tried not to stare at it too long because now the table was flying. It slammed against Ross's jaw and Peter grabbed hold of the edges of the table to the best of his ability. His wrist did not approve of the movement. But so what? He was about to go to jail before he even finished high school. Fucking high school of all things!

So he held it in front of him as if bullets would be shooting at any moment, and his breath was so heavy he almost mistook it for a monster. His heart, once so calm and steady, raced beneath his chest. It was awfully painful and so loud. He could hear it in his mind, feel it with the echoing throb of his pulse. No heart was supposed to beat that fast, and Peter half-wondered if it was a heart attack.

This wasn't what was supposed to happen.

He swallowed as he tried to calm his breathing. What was he supposed to do now? A table was obstructing his view, and his hands were still cuffed. The table went flying in the wrong direction. Instead of being near the door, Peter was further away. So he should break through a wall or the two way mirror and make a run for it.

Except he couldn't do that, because there was a dart in his arm.

Peter froze, though he wasn't moving much anyways, and it wasn't long before his vision went black.

_Fuck_.

* * *

"Fourth offense: the fight with Vulture. Fifth offense: the ferry incident."

Ferry incident? Hadn't Mr. Stark already yelled at him for that? And hadn't Peter already got his suit taken away and returned? Why was he getting lectured for it again? Peter learned his lesson about that a year ago. Or five years, if he counted the blip.

"Mr. Stark—" he said, but couldn't say anything more because there was bile in his throat.

He heaved to the side as he emptied his stomach. Peter had yet to peel his eyes open. They were much too heavy, almost as if they were bruised, and now his throat and lips were burning and raw and there was a horrible taste in his mouth.

"Shit." He said.

Where was he?

His head was laying on something cold and hard, wrist numb and tingly. But the other wrist felt as though it were stuck, almost like it was trapped under the rubble that Vulture crushed him with.

He gasped, flinging his eyes open. Was he under that rubble? Had Toomes been released? Did he come after Peter and crush him under a building again or—

"I don't care what Tony Stark did." But that wasn't Toomes voice, and it certainly wasn't his face. So Peter squinted at him. If not Toomes, then who was it? He felt the answer on the tip of his tongue. It was sitting right there. He _should_ know it. He knew he should know it.

But he didn't. This man was a complete stranger.

Peter groaned. His head was foggy, and when he looked down, his wrists were cuffed to a table, one of them was bent at an odd angle. How had that happened? Did Peter get into a fight? And why was it numb? It was obviously broken. But Peter couldn't feel a thing.

He furrowed his brows. This looked like a bad situation, but although his pulse was racing, he was completely calm.

"Sixth offense: the Washington monument."

_Oh_.

Thaddeus Ross, the stranger who beat accusations down Peter's throat and insinuated that he wasn't human.

He remembered now.

And he wished he hadn't.

"Fuck." He said.

"Seventh offense: the first fight with Thanos—"

_What_?

Thanos? Ross was blaming him for _Thanos_?

"Half the universe—"

"Eighth offense: the second fight with Thanos."

What was _wrong_ with this guy? Thanos eliminated half the universe. Peter had to help prevent that. And yes, he'd failed in the end. Peter had been blipped. But once Mr. Stark brought him back he was ready to fight again. If it weren't for the avengers, then half the universe would not be here today.

Peter wouldn't be here.

And besides, that first fight happened in space.

How could Ross blame him for a fight that happened in space?

"What is wrong—"

"Ninth offense: the fight in Prague. And London makes ten. That's ten major offenses, Parker, and that's not counting the many, many vigilantism activities you've done."

Peter shook his head frantically. This couldn't be right. Ross couldn't accuse him of any of this. He was a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Though that title might have been stripped when Mr. Stark gave him EDITH. Or when he went to space. But that wasn't the point. Peter was a good guy. He _fought _the bad guys. There was Vulture, Thanos, Quentin. He'd fought them all.

Except Thanos and Quentin were not successful, because Peter lost so much in those battles.

So how could this—this idiot come in here and accuse Peter of crimes that weren't crimes?

"How are these offenses? I never even signed the Accords."

Triumph. That was what he saw in Ross's face. Triumph.

No.

"Which is why they're offenses."

Peter slouched. There was nothing more to say, because he hadn't seen the Sokovia Accords and all he knew about crime was that his vigilantism was illegal, but no one seemed to mind until today. No one minded until everyone saw a fake video.

A video that destroyed his life.

He took a shuddery breath, clenched his fists so tight his palms bled.

And Ross nodded to the mirror behind him.

"Bring her in." He said.

It was a second later that Peter came face to face with Aunt May.


End file.
